


Unmoored

by SweetSerenity



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2019-09-01 07:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16760335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSerenity/pseuds/SweetSerenity
Summary: A series of drabbles, unmoored from space and time. Shadowy scenes that could exist at any moment in The 100 universe, from the dropship days to life after the second exodus from Earth. Things change, but they also stay the same. Scenes can take place any time when the characters involved were alive. Past, present or future.Chapter 1: Clarke and Bellamy bicker about presenting a united front.Chapter 2: Octavia confronts a dream.Chapter 3: Octavia offers Raven her sword, and Raven shares some wisdom about respect instead.Chapter 4: Clarke breaks the news to Bellamy about a camp baby's new name.Chapter 5: Clarke and Octavia find a new way to vent their rage.Chapter 6: Clarke asks for help from a makeshift grave.Chapter 7: Clarke and Bellamy go on a horse ride together (BELLARKE)





	1. United Front

**Author's Note:**

> Requests and prompts are welcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Bellamy bicker about presenting a united front.

They were in a ramshackle hut in the middle of nowhere, the only furnishings a rough wooden table and three chairs. There wasn’t much room in the hut, and most of that room was taken up with a terse silence, a silence with a heavy physical presence. But that was the thing about silence. It could be broken.

‘I think we need to present a united front tomorrow. We can’t stand around bickering about our position. Our people might find it adorable, but to outsiders we’ll just look weak.’ It was Raven that had used the word adorable. Raven had an infuriatingly clever way of cutting through their disagreements to get her own way, so of course she would find it cute. Sometimes Clarke thought that they needed a smart and unflappable badass to delegate ‘saying no to Raven’ duties to. But the first person that came to mind was Raven. Oh well. Saying yes to Raven had worked out pretty well for them so far.

‘Don’t be silly Clarke. We’re always a united front.’

‘I believe you completely. That intense glare really sells it.’ Clarke smoothed out her own face before he could accuse her of hypocrisy. She couldn’t really blame Bellamy. Sometimes her features just had a way of naturally falling into a glare when he was around. Like a reflex. She supposed it was far better than some of the alternative expressions she suspected herself of having in his presence. An irritating Bellamy was a safe Bellamy.

He leaned back on his chair so that the front legs hovered slightly off the ground. His posture radiated casualness, but she could just picture him sitting there, practicing it like a sport until he could pull off the lean. She had strong urge to kick his chair to give him a new challenge.

‘We agree on more than we disagree on. This time, at least. It’s only in the details. We’ll go with your plan for the agriculture trading, and mine for the weaponry. Then keep the alternate plans as backups in case the circumstances change when we get there. Problem solved.’ He smiled one of his most charming smiles, but Clarke was not charmed.

‘Problem solved? Problem solved! We’ve been arguing about which beans and herbs to offer them for hours! And now you’re just happy to concede?’ She was a little embarrassed at the silly fist thump she made on the table, but it was overshadowed by her anger.

He shrugged. ‘What can I say? You wore me down. Can we go have some dinner now? I’m starving.’

When Clarke stood up and leaned forward, Bellamy plopped the chair firmly back on the floor, and gripped the table with both hands. Sometimes it was almost like he could read her mind. Her urge to kick his chair, or to just go ahead and kick him, was becoming stronger. ‘Why did you waste my time?’

He sighed. ‘I wanted an excuse to avoid Octavia. She’s mad at me. Again.’

Clarke let go of her anger all at once. It was a perfectly understandable reaction to Octavia’s wrath. She herself had organised on an impromptu herb gathering mission last week to stay out of Octavia’s warpath. ‘I really hate you.’

Bellamy smiled again, a genuine grin this time. ‘You really don’t. And now we’ve had more practice working on our united front. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

Clarke shook her head and wandered over to the door, unable to resist a smack to Bellamy’s shoulder on her way. She was hungry too.

‘Clarke?’

She didn’t want to stop her march towards the food, but she recognised Bellamy’s ‘serious talk’ tone. She secretly liked their petty bickering, but walking out on the chance for a real talk with Bellamy was unthinkable. She worried about ten times a day that there would never be a next one. And during their talks, his words always went straight through her like an arrow, good or bad. They moved her at her core. They made her feel more like herself. She needed that. So she reluctantly turned back around to face him. ‘Yes?’

‘The united front thing is just silly diplomacy. A show. But we’re a team. We always have been. Even when we fight. Especially when we fight.’

‘Agreed.’

As they walked back towards the camp, they started another argument about the best way to cook meat. There was violent gesturing and raised voices. No one would ever mistake them for a united front. But they were a team.


	2. A Real Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia confronts a dream.

Octavia lay on the grass, shivering. It was a sunny day, with a blue sky and birds singing, but she felt cold to the core. Last night she had dreamt that she was on the Ark again, hiding under the floorboards. She had dreamt about it so any times since she had reached the ground, but this time something had changed. It used to be a nightmare. A nightmare about being trapped in a tiny claustrophobic little box, of living a life so small that she felt like only a tenth of a person. When the dropship landed, she had shouted to the heavens and celebrated that she would never have to go back. It was over, for good. It had still haunted her nightmares, but in the daytime she was free.

But last night… she had been in the dark, and her leg was cramping from the awkward position her mother had pushed her down in when they heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Ten minutes ago she had been yawning from boredom as she stitched the hem on an old shirt, but now she was wide awake. She could feel her heart racing from fear and panic. A pair of boots stopped right outside their door, and she could barely contain herself. The lock clicked open, and then she was pushing at the floorboard, unable to stand it for a moment longer, but her mother held it down until the lock clicked shut again. She gave one big push, and this time she met no resistance. She flung herself out of the dark and into her brother’s arms. He staggered under her weight, but it was mostly just for show. Bellamy was strong, and he had years of experience carrying her around. He spun her around until she was dizzy, then dropped her gently back on her feet, with a gentle hand on her shoulder to keep her steady. She was laughing and crying at the same time, and he hugged her close until she gained her composure. He sat on the floor with her as they shared their rations, because there weren’t enough chairs and neither of them would leave the other on the floor by themselves. Then she pulled out a well-worn pack of cards that Bellamy had made for her when she was six, and they played made-up games until Bellamy started yawning. Then she pushed him up and made him go to bed despite his protests, and she gave him a goodnight kiss. She sat in the dark, daydreaming and listening to the quiet night-time rumblings of the Ark until she fell asleep on the chair, safe in the knowledge that Bellamy was waiting up to carry her back to her bed beneath the floorboards.

And then she woke up. And she ran and ran until her legs gave out, and collapsed in a heap on the ground, stretching out to lie straight when her leg started to cramp. Because this time it hadn’t been a nightmare. She hadn’t been scared at all. There had been a feeling of peace, and a gentle yearning. When had her awful childhood become something she missed? How had her head become so screwed up? Things were so messy here, so overwhelming. She kept making new mistakes every day, and sometimes she wasn’t sure she liked the person she was becoming. Whenever she thought a crisis was finally over, a new even more terrifying one was just waiting to pounce on them. She hated to confront it, but there was a part of her deep down that missed her life on the Ark. Missed the routine, the familiarity, the simple joy of her brother’s unconditional love. She hadn’t existed, so no one had asked or expected anything of her. She might have only been one tenth of a person in a tiny world, but it was her world, and she knew it like the back of her hand.

For a moment, when her mind was vulnerable and open in her sleep, she had yearned to have her nightmare back. It shook her to her core. It felt like everything she knew was flipped upside down. What was real? The heat, the birds, the sky? Was she even here, or was she just trapped hiding in the dark? The thoughts raced through her head until she clutched her stomach and threw up. Oddly, it helped. It had been the peak of her panic attack. Then she started to fall back down to a place where she could breathe normally again.

She was Octavia Blake. No fantasy or nightmare or hallucination was going to bring her down. If her messed-up head wanted to go backwards every now and again, she would just shake herself until she was thinking sanely again. She was a fully-fledged person now, a real girl. She was only going forwards from now on. If the world was on fire, she would just keep marching or dancing on until she was nothing but ashes. She was alive.


	3. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia offers Raven her sword, and Raven shares some wisdom about respect instead.

Raven heard the tell-tale rustling noise of the tent flap. She looked out of the corner of her eye and discovered the intruder was Octavia. Fierce scowl. Sword. She looked battle-ready, but Raven knew it was only her just-another-Tuesday look. Raven shifted her focus back onto the gears she was trying to fit together. She had learnt that people talked more easily when it looked like you were busy with something else. It was the bane of her existence on most days, but today it could work _to_ her advantage.

‘Need any help? An extra pair of hands, a sword to discourage thievery?’

Though Raven had been holed up in this tent working on a project for most of the week, she knew from her friend’s reports that things had been getting dangerous out in the camp. All of the various threats looming over them were making people antsy, and things had been disappearing from their stores. People were hoarding supplies. Raven had nothing edible in her work tent, but she had a lot of materials that would be valuable in trade. She put down her work and looked Octavia straight in the eye. ‘There are a million things in here I could use as a weapon at a moment’s notice.’ She picked up a blowtorch and flicked it on in demonstration. ‘Plus Clarke and Bellamy come in here bugging me so often that they might as well be my bodyguards.’

Octavia looked a little disappointed, but she didn’t leave. She started pacing up and down until Raven sighed and threw a bag of wire at her. ‘Untangle these. Put anything longer than your hand in a separate pile.’

It was ten minutes before Octavia spoke up again. ‘People respect you.’

‘That’s true,’ Raven said. ‘I’m a genius. They should bow down before me. Give me ten hours and I might have a working torch that only sucks half the time.’ One of her previous designs had blown up and the other had barely lasted for an hour. But she knew there was a breakthrough just around the corner. Let there be light.

‘I need a thing of my own. Something I can do besides cut out someone’s intestines.’

Raven was pretty sure Octavia knew how to cut out many other body parts with her sword, but she understood her point. ‘You’re an all-rounder. You’ve got the guts and smarts to do anything, to jump in where you’re needed. Specialising is more trouble than it’s worth. There are some days when I would love to just pick up a sword and stab something. But then who would fix all of this crap? I couldn’t resign from this gig if I wanted to.’

‘Do you want a day off? I told you, my sword is yours if you want it. I can scare everyone away. I’m good at that.’

‘I might take you up on that someday.’ She looked at her pile of junk and sighed. ‘But not today.’

They worked in silence for a while. Lately Raven had preferred to work alone, but Octavia wasn’t bad company. Even so, she didn’t want the girl haunting her tent all day. She tried to wait long enough to lull Octavia into a false sense of security before she struck. ‘People respect you too. Bellamy respects you.’

‘I know he does.’

So Raven’s first guess was wrong. Trial and error. That was the way to get things done. If it wasn’t Bellamy… ‘And Clarke.’

This time Octavia gave her a sceptical look.

‘Really, she does. She cares what you think. She’s won’t show it because she’s scared that you don’t respect her back. That you disapprove of her choices.’

‘Of course I do. She can be a pain in the ass and she makes some dumb choices. But she heals people, can practically bring them back from the dead. And she’s a total badass, a rebel and a goody-goody at the same time. How could anyone not respect that?’

‘Exactly,’ Raven agreed with a wink. ‘How could anyone not respect someone like that?’

Raven could see her point sink in. Octavia might be feeling a bit insecure right now, but no one had ever accused her of being modest. Octavia sat there thoughtfully for a while and then left with her sword hand relaxed. Raven crossed one more problem off her to-do list and moved on the next one. She attacked her torch design with a new enthusiastic zeal. Machines could be complicated and frustrating, but compared to dealing with people they were a breeze.


	4. The Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke breaks the news to Bellamy about a camp baby's new name.

Clarke wound the bandage tightly around Bellamy’s leg, slapping away his hand when he tried to take over. “That should do it. Plus a week of bed rest.”

His frown was fierce. “Like hell.”

“One week.”

A staring contest ensued.

“Fine.” Bellamy’s surrender was a grumpy one.

She knew that really meant he would wait 24 hours and then sneak out. Coincidentally, that would fulfil her _actual_ prescription for bed rest. Clarke knew that if it were anyone else giving the order, he would have been on his feet the second the words crossed their lips. The two of them had an unspoken agreement not to lie to each other anymore. And yet here they both were, lying to each other. Like so many times before, today she could package a benevolent lie with a painful truth. “I have something to tell you.”

“Go on.”

“Do you remember that couple that you rescued from that weird cave a month ago?”

“The one with the pregnant woman?” His eyes were wary.

“Mm. See, that’s the thing-“

“Did she lose the baby?” He was staring down at his bedsheet, so she couldn’t read his expression, but she could make a pretty good guess. Fear. Anger. And guilt. There was always guilt.

“No, no. The baby’s fine. A healthy baby boy.” She smiled to show that she meant it.

“Then why are you treading on eggshells? Out with it. What’s the crisis?”

Apparently the smile was unconvincing. “You named Octavia, right? How did you decide on a name?”

“Clarke…” It was practically a growl. He could obviously sense where the conversation was leading.

“They were really grateful for the rescue.”

“I see.”

“You can’t make them take it back. They’ve been calling him Bellamy for days now. And you know that the odds of survival were depressingly slim. The mum was braced for heartbreak, and she’s still really fragile.”

Bellamy looked at her accusingly. “How could you let them do that? Why?”

“I wasn’t at the birth. I was in a surgery all day and I didn’t hear about it until it was over. I’m sorry. I would have talked them out of it. You know I would have.”

“Clarke, I can’t-“

He choked on the words, but she knew what he meant. “You can. It’s just a name. It's just letters, arranged in a certain order.”

“After everything I’ve done… Are they delusional? Or just stupid?”

“Neither. On that day, you were their hero. You gave them a future with their kid.”

“How much of a future? A week? A month? I wouldn’t bet on anything more than that for us, let alone for a baby.”

“I would.” She reached for his hand and unclenched his fist. “Because he’ll have you in his corner. He’ll have all of us. Naming him after you was actually a really strategic move. Every single person in this camp will be watching that kid like a hawk. No one will want to face your wrath if something bad happens to him.”

He shook his head wildly. ‘I don’t deserve-“

“It’s not about what you deserve. It’s about what the baby deserves. A good name. And it _is_ a good name.”

He jabbed a finger at her shoulder. “If the shoe were on the other foot-“

“If the shoe were on the other foot, you would tell me to shut up and get over it. To let the family enjoy their happy ending in peace. Someone should, and we both know it isn’t going to be us.”

He sighed and let his head fall back to the pillow with a bang. “Two Bellamys. We’re all doomed.”

Clarke shrugged. “What else is new?”

When they visited the baby together two weeks later, Bellamy had a smile on his face for the family. It was 90% fake, but there was a tiny part of Bellamy, deep down, below all the layers of trauma and bullshit, that was genuinely happy to meet his namesake. Even when the baby greeted him by throwing up goo all over his favourite shirt.


	5. Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Octavia find a new way to vent their rage.

At the crack of dawn, Clarke tiptoed through the shadows to someone else’s tent. It was on the other side of the camp from her own tent, about as far away as it could possibly be. She suspected that wasn’t an accident. And yet, she was still going to rudely barge in and wake up its occupant before the sun was even up. It was necessary for her sanity, she told herself. She wished she had some sort of armour, but all she had was desperation hidden behind layers and layers of fake confidence, behind the bluff that she was Clarke Griffin and she could tread wherever she wanted to. That she had more daring than anyone else in this camp. Everyone, that is, except for the person inside the tent. Clarke knew she couldn’t afford to hesitate. She waltzed right in. Her first step was to move the sword away from the sleeping bag, far out of reaching distance. Then she knelt down and shook the sleeper’s shoulder. For the first time since she had dreamt up her ridiculous plan, she felt guilt. Sleep was a rarity for both of them. But it was too late to turn back now. “Octavia?” she whispered.

Octavia was up in a flash, pulling on her boots with one hand as she reached for her sword with the other. When her hand came up empty, she turned to Clarke wordlessly. Clarke handed her the sword. She had feared the sleeping Octavia’s instincts, but awake Octavia was slightly less likely to stab her. Maybe ten percent less. It was a risky move. But the wrath of a swordless Octavia could be sharper than any blade. Best to try and keep her to her usual low buzz of anger and condemnation.

“What’s the emergency?” Octavia asked slowly, enunciating every syllable. Her tone said that she had already deduced there was no such thing. Octavia was well-acquainted with Clarke’s emergency face and this wasn’t it.

“No emergency,” Clarke said breezily. “I just wanted to talk to you while the rest of the camp is tucked away in their beds. I have a favour to ask.”

Octavia tilted her head in question. Her sword hand was twitching. A bad sign.

“I was hoping you could spar with me. Teach me a few moves.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes. “Hand-to-hand or swordplay?”

“Hand-to-hand.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to attack you? Beat you up?”

“I want you to teach me to fight.”

“Why? Are you expecting trouble?” Octavia poked the tip of her sword with her finger as though she were checking its pointiness. She didn’t draw blood.

“No more than usual. Look, I’m not preparing for war or anything. I’m just running out of pencils.” Clarke had drawn and drawn until her hands ached, but it still wasn’t enough. She needed a new outlet. “Are you in or not?”

“In,” Octavia said with a devilish grin. She pushed past Clarke on her way out of the tent, almost knocking her over. Clarke rubbed her shoulder and followed Octavia out to a private clearing where no one would be able to hear her scream.

* * *

Clarke took a lot of hits. Hard ones. But she made sure to give as good as she got. She couldn’t match Octavia in technique or strength, but she matched her in rage and that was enough. Clarke thought that Octavia was surprised by that. Good. There would come a time when she had played all her cards and used up all of her reserves. Then this rage would be all that she had left. She suspected that Octavia was already in that place. That she called it home. Revelled in it. Clarke wasn’t ready to join her there yet, but she had learnt to prepare for the worst. Sometimes she thought it was inevitable.

They sparred in near-silence for a long time. A kick and a counter-kick. Hold and then release. Heavy breathing. The gurgling of water. Octavia taught her through demonstration. Painful demonstration. Octavia would strike out and Clarke would have a split-second to mirror her before the impact came. Octavia shuffled from move to move at a rapid-fire speed, daring Clarke to slip up. At one point Octavia managed to get her hands around Clarke’s neck, and she lost a few breaths before she could twist out of her grasp. Clarke knew that if she faltered the game would be over. She was dancing with a hurricane. Given half a second to think about it, Octavia might just decide to cut her losses and knock Clarke out. Inspired by that train of thought, Clarke took some initiative and thumped Octavia on the head with her fist. She reeled back for a second, caught off guard. Clarke followed up with a swift kick to her ankle. She couldn’t show hesitation now. Octavia would be fine. She had a thick skull. Octavia proved her right when she slid onto her knees and tried to yank her off her feet. Clarke found herself balancing perilously on one foot for a moment, then purposely fell forward instead of backwards, landing on top of Octavia and knocking her down. Clarke was feeling smug until she felt a sharp pain in her hand and was distracted enough to let Octavia scramble away. She looked down to see teeth marks. And blood.

Octavia opened her mouth and Clarke knew a sarcastic comment was coming, but she charged forward and tackled her to the ground before the words could escape. Then they were wrestling around in the mud, all the pretence of a lesson gone. Clarke wouldn’t falter. The pain and the fear and the regret had to come out _right now_. It had to. She needed to channel it somewhere before she was crushed under its weight. And tears weren’t good enough. Tears were empty and damp and useless. But this battle was perfect. It made her feel alive. It made her feel like she was more than just her screwed-up brain. She was also bones and muscles and power, raw power that was unburdened and unashamed. They fought and fought bloody. Clarke lost count of how many times her head had banged against the hard ground, how many scratch marks she had given Octavia, how many times their eyes had met and looked away again. She kept seeing herself reflected in Octavia’s eyes, a wild and vicious thing, and she knew that Octavia saw the same thing mirrored back at her. It only egged them on. It showed each of them that the other was strong enough to take the blows, to take the pain. They fought on and on until the rain started to fall. Then they sprang apart like cats doused with water. It was over, just like that. They stood in the rain until they were both soaked through, discreetly cataloguing their wounds. They were impressive ones, and they would be hard to explain later.

Octavia picked up her sword from where she had left it leaning against a tree and strapped it to her back. She turned to Clarke with a smile that was both wider and bloodier than Clarke had ever seen from her before. “Same time tomorrow?”


	6. Makeshift Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke asks for help from a makeshift grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no right answers to the question of who Clarke is talking to in this chapter, or who she is talking about. I didn't even have an answer in mind when I wrote this. I had a dozen answers and all of them could be true. Feel free to share your own take on it in the comments.

Clarke turned the stone over in her hands as she knelt on the ground. It was rough and misshapen. Covered in grime. It felt right for her purpose. She dug a little hole in the dirt with her hands, uncaring of hygiene. Her hands weren’t clean. They didn’t need to be. The only place where cleanliness mattered was with a scalpel in her hand, and she hadn’t held one of those in a long time. The scalpel was only for when things could be saved. There was something poetic about surgery. You started with a clean slate, everything shiny and disinfected. Then you made the mess. If you were lucky, really lucky, then you got to clean up that mess afterwards. You could smile and hum a little melody and scrub things back to that clean slate again, instead of staring blankly at your bloody hands, reminding yourself over and over again that you weren’t the one that died. She supposed that this, her plan for the morning, was just another variation of that.

When the rock was sitting snugly in its little hole, she sat back on her knees, hands clenched, spine straight. She couldn’t decide where to look. She didn’t have much religious feeling. The dirt was just dirt. The rock was just a rock. The sky was just a sky. She couldn’t believe in the metaphors of death. But she had to look somewhere. She didn’t want to close her eyes. There were scary things in that black space, things she didn’t want to see while she was doing this. Her eyes settled on a bird hopping along a branch. It would have to do. She knew it was just a bird. If it flew off in the middle of this thing, she would _not_ take it as a bad omen. She wouldn’t.

“So,” Clarke breathed out. “I wanted to talk to you. And I lost your grave a long time ago. So this will have to do. I wish I could say that I hope you’re proud of me. But I know that you’re not. And that’s just the way it has to be. If I had gone down that path, if I had listened to that little voice inside my head, listened to your voice, I would be dead. And maybe that would have been right and good, but it isn’t what I chose. My instincts tell me to keep trying, to keep moving forward. It might be futile. It might even be evil, when you get right down to it. But I’ll keep doing it anyway.”

She scratched an itch on her arm and when she looked up the bird was gone. It meant nothing. She looked down at the stone instead. This was better. The sun wasn’t in her eyes anymore. “I’m sorry for that. I feel like I could scream myself hoarse saying that I’m sorry until the end of time, and it still wouldn’t be enough. But that isn’t why I’m here.”

She gave in to what felt natural and closed her eyes. “I’m here because you knew a side of me that the people I have left never knew. And I need to access that side of myself. Because there’s someone here, someone that reminds me of her so much that it’s like a stab to the gut. I have to reach them before it’s too late and I just don’t know how. That old Clarke Griffin feels alien to me now. She isn’t in my head the way you are. She might as well be on the moon. But you always knew how to talk to her. You always knew exactly what to say. So I’m begging you. Whatever problems that linger between us across the void of death, whatever sins and existential differences, whatever love or hatred you have for me now, please help me save them.”

There was a silence that wasn’t silence, as something was whispered across the void.

“Thank you.” It was a whisper on the wind, because Clarke was already gone. She had the time to talk and to listen. But she didn’t have time to linger by makeshift graves. She had some saving to do.


	7. Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Bellamy go on a horse ride together. (BELLARKE)

Clarke patted the creature’s mane a few times, trying to get a sense for whether it was a biter. Or a kicker. It had a back wide enough for riding and it was swift-footed, so they had decided to ignore the weird claws on its hooves and the spikes under its belly and call it a horse. She was sure that it was no tame creature. She was taking a big risk, getting on its back, but she had somewhere to be by dawn tomorrow and this was the only way to get there. The creature was ignoring her pats, so she went ahead and mounted it. It was low enough to the ground that she didn’t need a leg up. They hadn’t wanted to risk igniting its temper with a saddle or reins, so she would be riding freestyle and hoping for the best. She didn’t think it was worth the effort to ask the creature to circle around, so she just called out to Bellamy over her shoulder. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

And they were off.

It would have been more economical to double up on the horses, to share. The horses were certainly big enough for that. Octavia had been on the verge of suggesting it when Clarke had cut her off with a loud question about the curve of the river they were to follow on their journey. That had earned her a very knowing look. Octavia only _thought_ she knew what was inside of Clarke’s head. And Clarke only thought that she knew what Octavia thought she thought. It was an exhausting maze, even more so when you added in the conjectures of Raven and Murphy and the random boy she had passed on her way to the toilet this morning.

Clarke knew her own mind. It was simple. She didn’t want to share the horse. They had two horses, they would use two horses. End of story. Clarke didn’t know any horsey commands and the horses didn’t know any human commands. But that didn’t matter. She and the horse were of the same mind. _Run. Run fast._

They flew across the open ground. The breeze whipped her hair around her face until she could barely see. She wanted to scream and laugh, but the air was dusty so she kept her mouth firmly shut and settled for a smile. She turned to face Bellamy. She looked to the side, not to the back, because she knew with a bone deep certainty that he would be matching her stride for stride. And there he was. She looked ahead again and they galloped onwards.

They lost track of time as they raced across the plain, destination almost forgotten. Until her horse stumbled. It galloped on unevenly for a few steps before coming to an abrupt halt at her urging. She slid off the horse gingerly, but before she could examine its hooves, it was off again, continuing the journey without her. A devious trick. She was disgruntled, but her respect for the creature went up a notch. She stood and waited, resigning herself to the inevitable.

They had one horse and they would share it. End of story. Except that it wasn’t. There would be a next time and a time after that. Each time it would be harder to justify having her own horse. With one horse there was less room for baggage. The vision of one person was compromised. They would make an easier target. If something went wrong, there was no backup. If anything, this incident proved that she had been right. She could argue her case. She would argue her case, to anyone who stood in her way. She just had to get through today first. It would be okay.

When Bellamy and his horse pulled up next to her, he took one look at her grumpy expression and smiled in unholy amusement. “Do you doubt my horsemanship that much Clarke?”

“I just don’t like feeling confined,” she said. “But I’ll get over it.”

Would she get over it? It was more than just the horse ride. She didn’t want to be a prisoner to the warmth and the giddiness and the _wondering_. She didn’t want to be shackled to the what ifs and maybes. She didn’t want to want. She had tried so hard to keep that cell door open, but now she could see it closing, inch by inch.

“You can steer,” he said good-naturedly.

She thought if he was offering to give up control then she must look really scary. She made an effort to stop brooding and relax her facial muscles. “No, I trust you. Keep the reins.”

He patted the horse’s bare neck.

“The _metaphorical_ reins. I don’t need to hold them. I just…”

“You wish there didn’t need to _be_ any reins at all.” He slid neatly off the horse.

“Bellamy! If we lose a second horse we’ll be stranded in the middle of nowhere.” She pushed him back towards the horse, putting a gentle hand on the horse’s neck at the same time, though she knew if it decided to run her grip wouldn’t even slow it down.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” There was a glint in his eye, one that made her heart beat faster.

“Yes, it would! We could starve, we could freeze to death, we could…”

“We could enjoy the moment. Have some space to breathe.”

Clarke shook her head furiously, trying not to be lulled by his smooth voice. “We have somewhere to be.”

“We’ve already covered so much ground. We can afford to take our time.” There was understanding in his eyes. There had been so many emotions between them, from grief to joy, but more and more these days, when she looked at him, she just found that calm understanding. She craved it and found it hard to stop herself from catching his eye over and over again just to see it. He reached for her hand and she met him halfway.

At first, it was just a friendly pat, the kind that they exchanged all the time. Then her fingers curled around his palm and suddenly it was a touch with intent. And her intentions weren’t pure at all. They were muddled and conflicted and _alive_. He stood completely still for a few seconds while she stroked his hand, fascinated by the friction between their skin. But when she reached up and pressed her lips to his, taking the experiment further, he responded quick as lightning, returning the kiss eagerly.

There was nothing around to lean on, so they held each other up. It should have been a clumsy disaster, but she knew Bellamy’s body intimately. What she didn’t know with her hands, she knew with her eyes. She found that she had a well of previously subconscious knowledge rising to the surface. She could trace the path of his shoulder blades with her eyes closed, could recall the height of his knee. They clung to each other tightly and created warmth everywhere, on their lips and hands and all over. It was like standing in a beam of sunlight.

The ending of the kiss was mutual. They untangled and withdrew just an inch and then she became Clarke again. She tilted her head, partly to get her hair out of her eyes and partly to try and jog her brain into working again. She was surprised by what she found when it did. “Huh, that was easier than I expected.”

“Are you calling me easy Clarke?” He brushed her hair behind her ear for her.

She shook her head, patting down his hair in return. It looked windswept, but she knew she was responsible for at least half of the damage. “That isn’t what I meant. I meant this. The after part. I thought this would ruin us, but it hasn’t. It feels the same. I’m still me. You’re still you. We’re still _us._ ”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a miracle.”

“So… you… we…”

She tugged at a lock of his hair playfully, then stepped back to look at it from another angle. It was as fixed as it was going to be. Really, she had only wanted something innocent to do with her hands. There was no one around to see his messy hair except her and the horse. The horse wouldn’t care, and she felt kind of proud of her own handiwork. “You couldn’t possibly doubt that I want to do that again.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly.” There had been a flash of insecurity in his eyes, but her words had wiped it away.

They both stared off awkwardly in opposite directions for a few moments. Clarke decided they needed to get back some sense of normalcy. “Maybe we should take a lunch break?”

“Yes. Lunch. Great idea.” He nodded enthusiastically.

The ground was too hard to sit comfortably, so they ate standing up, digging into the sandwiches from their backpacks. They talked lazily about the mission ahead of them, repeating things they had already said the day before. They weren’t exactly pretending the kiss didn’t happen, but they were pushing it to the background. Clarke couldn’t eat and think about the kiss at the same time, so she chose eating. It was a strategic decision. If it were to happen again anytime soon, she would need to keep her energy up.

Bellamy reached for a third sandwich. She slapped his hand away from the backpack. “No more food. I want my own horse back. We are going to scour the countryside and hunt her down, then bribe her into submission. If we’re hungry, she must be ravenous.”

His grin was as wide as she had ever seen it. “That’s my girl.”

“Angry and stubborn? You must be delusional from hunger if you think this is my cute face.” She climbed onto the remaining horse’s back. She slid backwards and motioned to the space in front of her. She had meant what she said about trusting him to steer and she wanted to focus on scouting for her missing horse.

“I love you this way Clarke.” The look in his eyes was so sincere that it almost hurt. She fiddled around with her backpack while he took his place on the horse.

When they were both settled in, she put her arms around his waist and pressed her head into his shoulder, so that her voice came out muffled. “I love you this way too.”

Clarke suspected that she loved Bellamy in every way, but she wasn’t going to show all her cards at once. As they galloped off again, she thought that sharing wasn’t so bad after all.


End file.
